Little John
by TYRider
Summary: John becomes a toddler and Sherlock has to cope!
1. Chapter 1

**A/N Sorry this is so short, but I've got the next chapter ready and waiting to be posted soon. Enjoy and of course read and review! Reviewers get vitual mango smoothies! :)**

Disclaimer: I do not own BBC Sherlock or any of the the characters... yet, that is. I'm working on it, but it's not very easy to kidnap Sherlock... Especially with John around! Grrr...

"Really, John. Must we visit the bathroom of every establishment in London?" Sherlock asked wearily.

"Sherwock, I weally have to go." Whined the increasingly squirmy John.

Sherlock sighed and looked up at the gray London sky._ So many bathrooms, so little time._ It seemed like John couldn't make it thirty minutes without needing to "go."

"Fine, but can you hold it 'til we get to the Yard?" It would be his first time to Scotland Yard with John since… Sherlock was dreading the experience, but knew it had to happen sooner or later. _Might as well be sooner._ He thought.

John nodded his sandy blond head.

Sherlock was struck by an unexpected thought, "John, do you remember what Scotland Yard is?" He asked, squatting down to the four year old's level. John was by all accounts a brilliant child and remembered many things from before the… accident.

John's clear blue eyes locked with Sherlock's gray ones. "That where Lawstwade work?" he asked.

So, he did remember. "Yes John, very good." Sherlock gave a pained smile. John's list of remembrances was growing to be quite extensive and Sherlock feared what else he might remember. He locked the thought away in a small closet of his Mind Palace to be examined at a later time.

"Sherwock, I have to go!" John said, yanking gently on Sherlock's coat.

"Okay, okay. Let's go." Sherlock scooped the little toddler into his arms and they hurried towards the nearby Yard.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N So, I decided to give y'all another, longer chapter to make up for posting such a short first one. Of course, read and review! Reviewers get virtual hugs and mango smoothies! Enjoy!  
Disclaimer: Sherlock still doesn't belong to me. :(**

Sherlock heard an incredulous voice call out behind him. "Sherlock?"

"A little busy Lestrade." Sherlock growled, sweeping into the Yard's bathroom with John still in his arms.

"Was that the freak—with a kid?" Donovan asked Lestrade.

Greg nodded, still unbelieving.

"What's the freak doing with a child?" she asked.

"Your guess is as good as mine! I 'spose we'll know soon enough, though. But, eh, don't you have something else to do?"

Donovan huffed and walked away.

Greg didn't have long to wait before Sherlock came out of the bathroom, a small toe-headed boy one his heels.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade asked again.

"Really, Lestrade, is that the only word you're capable of repeating? If it is I'm afraid I'll be needing to change my name before you wear this one out." Sherlock said dryly, rolling his eyes.

Lestrade ignored Sherlock and knelt down to the little boy. "What's your name, then?" he asked.

The little boy looked up at Sherlock seeming to ask permission, to see if Lestrade was alright. The trust in that look didn't escape Greg, but it did serve to further his confusion. "Name's John." Said the little boy finally, bringing his eye back to Lestrade.

_Ah, so maybe he's related to John. But then, where's John got off to?_

"And you're Gweg Lawstwade." Lisped the little boy confidently before Lestrade could introduce himself.

"Sherlock tell you who I was?" Lestrade asked, curious.

"No," John shook his head.

Lestrade sent a questioning glance to Sherlock who was looking at the ceiling ignoring them.

"Then how did you know my name?"

"'Cos I know you." Said the now smiling boy.

"Really? How?" Greg looked to Sherlock again, who was fidgeting and still ignoring the two of them.

_Now that's odd._ Greg thought. _Sherlock looks almost… nervous. Sherlock's never nervous. Not even during one of our drugs busts._

Suddenly, before little John had a chance to answer Greg, Sherlock snatched him up into his arms feigning playfulness. "Maybe we'd better take this into your office, Lestrade." Sherlock hissed under his breath close enough to Greg's ear that only he could hear. Sherlock went back to tickling the little boy, who was giggling uncontrollably in his grasp and Lestrade thought he saw Sherlock genuinely smile.

_Now that's even stranger._

Sherlock led the way to the office and once they were all inside with the door closed he asked John to color quietly while handing him some paper and a pen from Lestrade's desk.

"So, should I be arresting you for kidnapping or what?" Lestrade began half joking, half not.

Sherlock pulled a face, showing his annoyance. "Don't be ridiculous." Sherlock said with a wave of his hand.

"Then who's the kid? Someone related to John?"

"You could say that…" Sherlock examined his fingernails.

"Then where's John?"

Sherlock sighed, he'd hoped it wouldn't come to this. He really didn't want to explain. Maybe if he just ignored him…

"Where's John?" Lestrade asked again.

"He's right there." Sherlock pointed to the toddler busily coloring.

"I know that, but I mean where's John—our John?"

Sherlock sighed again and gave Lestrade a condescending look. "There," He repeated, still pointing to the little boy. "There is our John."

"What? You're kidding me!"

"Ask him yourself if you won't listen to me."

Lestrade got up from his desk and walked over to the child. He sat cross-legged on the floor in front of him. "What's your name, chap?"

John crinkled his nose and gave Lestrade a funny look. "My name's John Hamish Watson, but you alweady knew that."

Lestrade looked unbelievingly at the little boy. "Junior, I suppose?" He added, noting the resemblance between their right and proper John and this little one. Same clear blue eyes, same raggedy blond hair, he even had John's face, but rounded and softened by childhood.

"No, don't be silly Lawstwade." The boy quipped.

"You mean to tell me that you're John—our John?" he asked, wide-eyed.

The little head nodded.

Lestrade turned to Sherlock. "Why'd you teach him to say silly stuff like that?"

"I didn't. Can I help it if he remembers who he is?" Sherlock replied tersely. _God knows I wish I could._ He added to himself.

Lestrade still looked skeptical.

"Ask him more questions if you must in order to find out for yourself." Sherlock hastily added, "But don't mention anything about… time spent abroad."

"Alright." Lestrade said, thinking of a way to decide whether or not this John was their John. Finally he hit upon an idea he thought would work. "John, what kind of gun do I use?" He asked, knowing his gun was and had been tucked fully out of sight this entire time. He also knew his John Watson was an expert marksman and gun aficionado.

"That's easy." The child grinned. "You cawwy a two-tone Glock seventeen. Thiwd genewation." He recited simply in his own lisping way.

Lestrade was stunned, but convinced. "So, you really are John Watson."

John just crinkled his nose and looked at Sherlock. "'Course I am." He giggled.

"What the bloody hell happened to you?" Lestrade asked John, but he was looking at Sherlock.

"Language Lestrade." Sherlock warned.

"Seriously, though, what happened?" he pursued, rising to his feet and walking over to Sherlock.


	3. Chapter 3

"We were on a private case. A former employee of our favorite government sponsored animal testing facility might have been involved." Sherlock began, hinting at Baskerville. Lestrade found himself involuntarily shivering at the thought. "Well, said employee may or may not have stopped testing his "fountain of youth" experiment on animals and decided to move on to people after being sacked. You know those mysterious homeless deaths?" he asked, reminding the DI. "Mycroft had forced us to look into the matter. We may or may not have tracked down said employee, who may or may not have taken us by surprise and dosed John with his recently more stable version of the serum."

This sounded absurd even for Sherlock, but then again nothing was impossible with Sherlock. What was it he said once? _When I've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how mad it might seem, must be the truth._

"Really, Lestrade, you should try to keep that mouth of yours closed when it's not in use. Might get flies in there." Sherlock dripped with sarcasm.

"You know that sounds ridiculous, right?"

"Of course it does!" Sherlock sighed in frustration. "I couldn't believe it myself at first, but Mycroft had him fingerprinted and DNA tested—it's really John. Besides that, there's the resemblance… and his memories." Sherlock added, the last word barely a whisper.

Lestrade finally put two and two together and realized what Sherlock had meant by all the little comments. "_Can I help it if he remembers who he is?"_ Echoed through his mind. "_Don't mention anything about… time spent abroad." Oh._

"He remembers." Lestrade whispered.

"Not everything. Not yet." Sherlock replied, gray eyes gazing concernedly at the little boy at their feet.

"Does he remember… being abroad?" Lestrade asked fearful of the answer, he couldn't imagine a grown man living with what John had experienced in Afghanistan let alone a small child. He glanced at Sherlock.

"No. Not yet. Seems his memory beyond his current age, which is four by the way, is a bit hit and miss. Thank God. He has…" Sherlock paused, making a face Lestrade couldn't interpret. "Quite extensive recall of events from this age and earlier, but after that it seems quite random or perhaps it's based on sentiment." He sniffed at the offending word.

"Interesting." Lestrade let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. He was relieved to hear that little John wasn't haunted by the war.

"Quite. He remembers me, 221B, Mrs. Hudson, Molly, The Yard, and you—and apparently his passion for firearms. He doesn't recall all of our cases or even all of his parts in the ones he does, he doesn't remember Mycroft or St. Barts, or times spent abroad or in training. University, the cane and Harry's current… issues are also apparently repressed. It would appear that he can almost pick and choose from 'future' memories. His current past, however, seems to come back irrepressible and complete." Sherlock frowned darkly.

Lestrade gave him a curious look.

"Remind me to ask you to look into Mr. Samuel C. Watson." Sherlock said absentmindedly, fully engrossed in admiring John's artwork.

"What about father?" John asked, noticeably cringing.

"Nothing, nothing." Sherlock answered hurriedly, forcing a smile. "That really is a brilliant drawing, John." John relaxed and smiled sheepishly at the praise.

"Will do." Lestrade told Sherlock with some confusion.

John turned his artwork to Lestrade who admired the crudely drawn, but identifiable, picture of the front of 221B. "Well done, John."

John beamed.

"John, Lestrade and I need to step outside for a moment. Stay here and color. Be a good boy and don't get into anything, alright?"

John nodded obediently.

"How long will he, you know, be like this?" Lestrade finally asked once they were safely in the hallway.

Sherlock thought for a moment, studying his shoes. "I don't know." He admitted quietly. "Could be as short as a few days if the drug wears off or we find the cure, could be as long as thirty years before John's completely himself, could be any amount of time between."

"How long has he been like this then?" Was the next question.

Sherlock shifted uncomfortable "I'm not completely sure about that either. John was kidnapped exactly four weeks ago—"

"A bloody month ago? And you never told anyone? You just let someone kidnap John and you didn't do anything about it?" Lestrade broke in, trying to keep his voice lowered, but failing.

Sherlock pointedly ignored the outburst and continued on as before, "I found him, like this yesterday." He paused and his eyes took on a dangerous glint. "Don't mistake my silence for inactivity. I spent the entire month searching for John, with Mycroft's assistance. We both decided it would be best not to go to the Yard because of what the villain might do to John if we set a pack of baying hounds on him. Instead we searched quietly and ultimately found him."

"Why don't you know how long he's been like this?" Lestrade pushed.

"Well, it's obviously been somewhere between one and twenty-eight days, but beyond that even I cannot deduce. The scientist destroyed his notes before we got there and managed to escape our grasp." He replied, peeking through the window in the door to check on John. Lestrade thought he saw something like affection or parental love soften his features.

"Why don't you ask him?" Lestrade suggested.

Sherlock turned to Lestrade, his mask of apathy back. "I did. Apparently four year olds have a very poor sense of time—days of the week, months, years, dates—all of it are pretty much a blur according to John."

Lestrade nodded. "What are you going to do with him in the mean time?"

"He will return to 221B with me and I shall look after him until he is himself again." Sherlock replied, fixing Lestrade with a determined glare.

"How do you plan to take car of him? You're terrible with children and that flat of yours is one giant health hazard thanks to your experiments! I'm surprised adult John managed to survive in there."

"I may not be good with children, but John is no ordinary child and I am good with John." Sherlock answered, still glaring at Lestrade.

"What about the experiments and your flat? Do you have any ideas how many ways a toddler could get hurt or die in there?" He said, still not willing to let the subject drop.

"There are exactly one hundred and thirty-eight." Sherlock said evenly. "All of which will be taken care of. Admittedly, I'll have to do some tidying and child-proofing, but it is possible. It will take me approximately six hours to make the flat proper—three if you agree to assist me." He gave Lestrade a puppy dog look.

"Fine! I'll help you, but only for John's sake. I can tell I won't be able to change your mind and I'd hate for him to survive the war and all of your cases only to end up drowned in the tub for lack of simple forethought."

"One hundred and thirty-nine." Sherlock corrected himself.

Lestrade sighed. This wasn't going to be easy.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: So, here's another chapter for you wonderful people! :) Virtual hugs and gift baskets filled to the brim with virtual cookies and mango smoothies for ThisDayWillPass, Sherley Holmes, Ishilit, IzzyDelta and Elizabeth Mary Holmes! Future reviewers get virtual hedgehogs! ;)  
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.**

Once the two adults had finished their discussion they went back into Lestrade's office to find John asleep on the floor, pen in hand. His expression peaceful and relaxed. As carefully as if he were made of glass, Sherlock scooped up the sleeping lad without waking him. Silently, Lestrade grabbed his coat and followed Sherlock out. Sherlock with the sleeping toddler in tow attracted many curious glances as they exited Scotland Yard, but no one ventured a single word as Lestrade and Sherlock glared them down.

Outside they opted to hail a cab to Baker Street and soon found themselves in Sherlock and John's infamous flat.

"Jeez, Sherlock." Lestrade exclaimed quietly as he took one look around the flat. Without John's tidying touch for a month the flat had suffered terribly. Lestrade wandered into the kitchen while Sherlock laid John down in his bedroom. Dirty dishes graced every surface, half eaten food still inside. Knives and forks were just within a toddler's easy reach. Test tubes full of who-knows-what and Bunsen burners were scattered about the kitchen table. Eyeballs in the microwave, fingers in the toaster, thumbs floated in a lidless jar of some frightful substance. There was a severed head in the fridge and no edible food to speak of anywhere. Not to mention the cleaning chemicals and medical kit stored away in the unlocked cupboard.

Lestrade shook his head and turned back to the common area of the flat. Everywhere he looked there was a new and more startling danger. There were more full test tubes on the mantle along with Sherlock's skull. Unused matches sat on the side table next to a stack of newspapers. John's loaded gun was on the coffee table, safety off. Case files littered the entire room. There was an ornamental throwing knife stuck into the coffee table, an unopened box of cigarettes lay next to it. The laptop was on the couch, it's cord wound halfway round the room. There was what appeared to be a sword sticking out from under Sherlock's favorite chair. And… "Shit, Sherlock, is that a bloody harpoon in the corner?" he hissed loudly as Sherlock was just closing the bedroom door behind him.

"Language Lestrade." Sherlock warned. "And yes, it is. Allow me to congratulate you on your new found powers of deduction." He added, in a scathing tone.

Lestrade tried not to bristle. "Do I even want to see the bathroom?" he asked.

Sherlock ignored him.

"What about the bedrooms, Sherlock? You just left John alone in one of them for goodness sake!"

Picking at a piece of flint on the sleeve of his great coat Sherlock deigned to reply. "The bedrooms, while a mess, are not dangerous. I've already removed all weapons, pointy objects and experiments."

Lestrade was about to make a reply when the silence of the flat was shattered by screaming—John's screaming.

They both turned at the sound, Lestrade muttering a string of unsavory words and cursing Sherlock for leaving something dangerous with John and letting him get injured. They reached the door in an instant with Sherlock barely one step ahead of Lestrade. As they burst into the room they realized the screams had begun to form words and both men's hearts broke as they saw John cowering, still asleep in the bed, crying.

"No! No! No! Pwease, Pwease don't. Pwease stop." He screamed. Then adding in a hushed whimper that Lestrade and Sherlock had to strain to hear, "Pwease. I'm sowwy, daddy."

Sherlock and Lestrade exchanged heartsick glances.

Then Sherlock was at John's side, shaking him gently. "Shhh, shhh." He soothed. "It's alright, you're alright, John. It's me, Sherlock. You're father's gone. He's gone and he won't hurt you any more." Sherlock's voice was cracked with emotion and Lestrade could have sworn he saw a tear slip down his cheek. Lestrade himself was close to weeping at the boy's pitiful cries.

Finally, John quieted down and opened his eyes. He threw himself at Sherlock, who gasped in surprise as the child wrapped his arms around his neck and squeezed like he'd never let go. Sherlock recovered quickly and hugged John back, gently tracing circles on his back, shushing him softly as John continued to sob silently.

Lestrade stood back awkwardly, shifting his weight from foot to foot, unsure what to do.

"Don't let him get me, Sherwock." John hiccuped through his sobs. "Pwease, don't let him hit me again."

Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed. "I promise John, I won't ever let him touch you again." He said quietly, but Lestrade could hear the barely restrained ferocity in his voice. Sherlock was enraged.

Lestrade had never seen him show much (read: any) emotion in the five plus years he had known him and now he'd shown so much in just one afternoon.

After a while John stopped his sobbing and fell back asleep, Sherlock continued to rock him in his arms for a few more minutes. Finally satisfied that he was soundly asleep and peaceful, Sherlock replaced him on the bed, tucking the covers around him gently.

They made a silent exit and sat down wordlessly in the living room, Sherlock in his chair and Lestrade making a space for himself on the couch.

"Wouldn't have guessed that." Lestrade said gruffly, breaking the silence and trying to clear his thickening throat.

"I've had my suspicions today. He cringes at the mention of his father, cried when I raised my voice at Mycroft and cowered once when I lifted my hand to shoo a fly. I put two and two together then, that's why I asked you to look into his Father. I'd like to know if he was ever reported or prosecuted…" _I want to know if he paid for what he did to John._ Sherlock thought. "I never suspected domestic abuse before though." Sherlock said sadly. "No wonder the man was an wreck when he returned from the war. God only knows what he suffered at home before the war. Then he throws himself into Afghanistan and gets shot. It's amazing he escaped with nothing more than PTSD, a tremor and a psychosomatic limp."

"Men off themselves over much less than that." Lestrade observed solemnly.

Sherlock cringed, remembering something John had said once before. It had been late and John had had one too many beers at the pub. Sherlock was supporting John as they stumbled home together. Suddenly John had sobered up and grabbed Sherlock by the shoulders, forcing him to make eye contact.

"_Thank you." He said in all seriousness._

"_For what? Walking you home?"_

"_No, for saving me." Continued John._

"_I thought it was you who'd done the saving, John! What did you need saving from?" Sherlock had joked._

"_Me."_

Sherlock had seen the sad, grateful look in John's eyes—of course he had, Sherlock Holmes saw everything—but he'd simply shrugged it off as a silly beer-fueled statement. Now Sherlock wasn't so sure. Unprompted, an image of John appeared. He was alone, his face hardened with determination, his service pistol in his hands. Sherlock tried to delete the image but it refused to go. He shook his head and finally contented himself with throwing it in the attic of his mind, tucking it safely out of sight in an old crate, under his wardrobe from freshman year and locking the lid.

He sighed sadly.

"Poor John." Lestrade said aloud, voicing Sherlock's own thoughts.

Sherlock simply nodded.

"What're we going to do about the flat now?" Lestrade asked, changing the subject. "Have you got anything to childproof the doors and cupboards with?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"Got anywhere to store your experiments?"

"221C, the basement flat, Mrs. Hudson's suggestion." Sherlock answered.

"That's good. Is there any food in here? When's the last time John ate?"

Sherlock sighed, already tired of Lestrade's twenty questions, but he knew better than to ignore him right now. "Depends on what you consider food, but probably no by your standards and John and I ate out…" He looked at his watch. "Four hours and fifty-two minutes ago."

"He'll be hungry when he wakes up." Lestrade observed. "When's the last time he had a bath and a change of clothes? He's looking a bit grungy, Sherlock."

"Hmmm? I don't know. Not since I found him, which was… Just shy of twenty-four hours ago. He abhors baths apparently and Mycroft and I decided it was better not to traumatize him any more than necessary yesterday. Today I just didn't want the fight."

It was Lestrade's turn to nod. "Well, he's got to have a bath, change of clothes and a hot meal first thing when he wakes up. I'll help you if he kicks up too much of a fuss." He added, "Have you got any clean clothes for him?"

"No."

"Baby shampoo?"

"No."

"Right then, first things first, we need to go shopping!" Lestrade decided.

Sherlock cringed. He hated shopping.

Just then there was a knock at the door. They both looked round at the stairs as the front door opened before either could rise to answer it. They exchanged quizzical glances.

To their amazement, Mycroft appeared at the top of the stairs, his assistant at his heels, her cell phone strangely absent with her arms full of various bags and boxes from several establishments.

"Hello brother dear and Detective Inspector Lestrade, what a pleasure. I thought you might could use a few things." He said with a sweep of his arms toward his burdened assistant.

Sherlock grinned, genuinely happy to see his brother for the first time in ages.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Sorry for taking so long to update, but I hope this chapter makes up for it! Read and review please! Virtual hedgehogs to the wonderful Mary Elizabeth Holmes and ThisDayWillPass! ^_^  
Disclaimer: I own nothing.  
Warning: Mention of self-harm.**

Not-really-Anthea cleared off the coffee table and began unpacking the shopping bags, listing each item as she went, to the great satisfaction of the youngest Holmes.

"Childproofing equipment," She said, holding up several boxes. "Tear-free shampoo, child sized toothbrush and toothpaste for kids." She placed the items on the table. "Several outfits." She held up a jumper that looked just like a miniature version of something from John's closet. Sherlock grinned, John would be pleased. "And finally, some groceries—Cereal, bread, jam, milk, et cetera." She sighed as she set out the last of the provisions and pulled out her phone.

"That should do for now, don't you think so Sherlock?" Mycroft drawled, looking smug and swing his brolly.

Sherlock was loathe to thank the man. Instead he simply nodded.

Mycroft sighed, he'd expected as much. "Well, we'd best get started with the necessary preparations while we can. John won't sleep much longer."

"I thought you said you got rid of the cameras." Sherlock said, perturbed at Mycroft for going back on his word and himself for not properly searching the flat.

"And I thought you said you'd gotten rid of those cigarettes." Mycroft raised and eyebrow.

Sherlock huffed, throwing himself back into his chair. "I think we'd best get started. No one touch my experiments. I'll carry them down to 221C myself." He said, changing the subject. "Mycroft, as much as you dislike leg work, surely you could help Lestrade tidy up."

Mycroft grimaced. "Need I remind who's fault this is?" Sherlock added.

"Fine."

Sherlock calculated that they had approximately thirty minutes to make the flat habitable before John awoke. He flew about gathering his various experiments, cringing at the data that was being lost, but pushing on. _For John._ He thought.

Sherlock could hear Lestrade and Mycroft grumbling all the way from 221C and they tidied up, he smirked.

"Where the hell am I supposed to put this?" Lestrade asked, Sherlock laughed to himself as he pictured Lestrade holding the harpoon.

"You'll figure something out, Lestrade." Sherlock called up.

Not-really-Anthea we putting groceries away in the kitchen, using the space previously occupied by the grislier of Sherlock's experiments. The limbs and appendages would have to go back to Molly at St. Bart's now that Sherlock couldn't keep them in the fridge. He sighed. He'd have to take his riding crop to the mortuary when he went—he needed to blow off some steam.

Sherlock finished arranging his test tubes and made his way back upstairs to find the flat the cleanest he'd ever seen it. The experiments were gone, the dishes stacked neatly in the sink, all of the weapons were safely stowed away in the now childproofed closet, case files were neatly stacked on the desk along with the laptop, everything seemed to be in order. Mycroft, Lestrade and Not-really-Anthea were putting the last of the childproof doorknobs on.

Finished they all sat down to admire their handiwork when a the door to Sherlock's room creaked open quietly and there was the patter of little feet.

"Sherwock?" came the small voice.

"Over here, John."

John soon appeared and crawled into Sherlock's lap, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He yawned. "Hungry."

"I figured." Sherlock smiled to the shock of everyone else. "Let's find you something." They headed to the kitchen.

"Where's the head?" Lestrade heard John ask as Sherlock opened the fridge.

"He's going back to Molly." Sherlock said simply.

Sherlock and John walked back into the living room hand in hand. Sherlock placed a bowl of cereal on the coffee table for John.

"Sherlock, that's for breakfast." Lestrade informed him.

"So? It's food isn't it?"

Lestrade sighed, "Yeah, but it's five in the afternoon."

"It's morning somewhere."

Lestrade gave up and John munched happily.

"John, don't you think you aught to take a bath?" it was Mycroft that finally decided to broach the dreaded subject.

John shook his head furiously. "No."

"But really, John, you need a bath." Mycroft tried again.

"What for?"

"So you'll be clean."

"What for?" John repeated.

"Because you aught to be."

"Why?"

"Because you must take baths, John." Mycroft sighed.

"I don't see why. I'll only get dirty all over again. Might as well just stay dirty, skip the bath." John reasoned.

Mycroft shook his head. Diplomats, dignitaries and politicians he could handle any day, but this four year old was giving him a run for his money.

Sherlock interceded, trying not to smirk too much. "John, you really must take a bath whether you want to or not."

John pulled a face and opened his mouth to speak.

"No discussion, John." Sherlock interrupted sternly, though not unkindly.

John humphed.

"Now, I'd rather avoid any awkwardness and allow you to bathe on your own, but I'll call Mrs. Hudson up if I must." He said threateningly.

John narrowed his eyes and Sherlock saw something new—or rather old—in the look.

"Sherwock, I'm a grown man. I can bathe myself thank you vewy much." He stated, sounding very old in spite of his childish, lisping voice. John became very solemn and everyone realized that their John was back, mentally at least, even if only for a little while.

"John." Sherlock said sadly.

"It's alright, Sherwock." John said, forcing a smile. "I know you'll find a way to fix this… and even if you don't, I'll be more like myself in a few years. Although, you're going to hate me as a teenager."

Sherlock laughed. "I don't think I could ever hate you John."

John glanced around the room, nodding at each person in turn. Finally he brought his blue eyes back to Sherlock. "I like what you've done with the flat."

"I did it for you." Sherlock laughed nervously.

"Apparently toddlers are prone to injury and our typical environment wasn't conducive to your survival."

"Thanks." John said, then added, "I don't think I'll be older for much longer Sherwock. A couple of things before I revert: One, don't spoil me and two, I actually can, as a four year old, bathe and dress myself—without help." The adult-child John instructed.

And then, as quickly as the old familiar light had come into John's eyes, it left again and there was child John still pouting and cross at being forced into taking a bath.

Sherlock coughed, annoyed at the sudden tightness in his throat. _Damn these emotions._ He thought.

Not-really-Anthea was the first to act, pocketing her mobile and grabbing a change of very John-like clothes.

"Come on then," She said, ushering John towards the bathroom.

Sherlock heard her fumble with the now childproofed doorknob. Then, "Here's a towel and cloth and a change of clothes." The water turned on. "I'll leave the door cracked—but don't worry, no one will come by—just yell if you need anything. Shampoo and all's right there." The water turned off.

Then Not-really-Anthea was back.

Sherlock could hear splashing and giggling coming from the bathroom.

"Has he ever been like that before?" Lestrade finally asked.

"No." Sherlock answered, studying the ceiling.

"Do you think it's a good sign?"

"I can't say." Was the honest answer. Sherlock pondered the implications of John's moment of lucidity.

Silence took over 221B once more. Every occupant busy with their own thoughts.

Finally, there was was the sound of a toddler's slightly unsteady steps and Sherlock managed to peel his eyes from the ceiling. He was met with a comical sight.

Everyone giggled quietly as John appeared fully dressed except for his shirt. He seemed to be lost in his new jumper, both arms trying to get out of the one sleeve and his head stuck in the other. John managed to navigate his way to Sherlock by memory.

"Help pwease." John asked politely when he bumped into Sherlock's knee. Sherlock laughed.

Sherlock gently extricated John from his predicament, removing the offending shirt. Without looking at John Sherlock focused on untangling the shirt when he heard Not-really-Anthea gasp and Mycroft and Lestrade both swear quietly.

Sherlock looked up and found himself swearing too when he caught sight of John.

Sherlock had never seen John without a shirt and now he wished he still hadn't. There was an angry, puckered mass of scarring covering most of John's left shoulder, front and back. It was his wound from Afghanistan. It was worse than Sherlock had pictured it.

Sherlock's mind began it's line of deductions and he couldn't force it to stop. _Bullet entered from behind and slightly above. Exited through the front. Shattered clavicle. At least one and a half liters of blood lost. Severed muscles. Punctured left lung. _He thought his mind was on to deducing the conditions and the gunman—_Trained sniper. Five foot ten. Average build._ He ignored the voice after that. _John almost died. John almost never came into my life._ Rang through his head on a loop.

Then Sherlock opened his eyes and took another look at John. Sherlock's face twisted in horror. John's bullet wound wasn't the most shocking thing marring John's pale skin. Rows upon rows of straight-edged scars. The others couldn't see John's arms from where they were seated, but Sherlock could. There were some old and faded, barely raised. Others were newer, more prominent. Most had been shallow, but a couple were deeper. Sherlock cringed. Unsure what to do Sherlock slowly turned John around for the others to see. He put a precautionary finger to his lips, asking for silence.

One by one Mycroft, Lestrade and Not-really-Anthea's faces flooded with understanding and sadness.

Sherlock touched a few of the scars lightly, wondering what had pushed his friend to such extremes. He shook the thoughts into the basement of his Mind Palace and focused on the task at hand. He helped John with his jumper, covering the scars.

_John, what happened to you?_


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Sorry again for the wait! Enjoy the chapter and if you could, be a dear and review. ^_^ ThisDayWillPass, Sherley Holmes, Elizabeth Mary Holmes and rukushaka, this chapter is for you. You are all lovely and your reviews keep me writing! :) I hope this chapter does not disappoint!  
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot and the OCs! Sherlock and the rest belong to the Brilliant Doyle and BBC, etc.**

Sherlock and John crossed the street, Sherlock's slim, long-fingered hand wrapped gently around John's small pudgy one. They were returning to Baker Street after a busy morning out. Once inside the door, John released Sherlock's hand and bounced lightly up the stairs, laughing. Sherlock took his time making his own way up to their flat, just enjoying the sound of John's genuine laughter.

The last week had been a rough one. It had been exactly seven days since he'd found John. The events that followed would have been emotionally trying for anyone, but for the normally mechanical Sherlock Holmes it had been hell, he'd never suffered such a dangerous brush with sentiment before. How did other people do it? How did they walk around with these damned emotions all the time, feeling so heavy? How do you function when the heart you didn't think you had comes to life just in time to be stabbed and set on fire?

Sherlock found it hard to focus at times when Sentiment, having finally found it's voice, decided to argue with Logic, who was accustomed to ruling unchallenged for so long. Logic still won out about ninety-five percent of the time and would banish Sentiment back to it's quiet cell in his Mind Palace to pout. But when it came to John, Logic was oddly silent, seeming to agree with Sentiment whenever it could and holding its piece when it couldn't. When it came to John, Sherlock learned, Sentiment had logic thoroughly flogged every time. Finally, unable to cope with the internal bickering, Sherlock locked the two squabblers in the Mind Palace's basement and ignored them, only allowing the victor out for a time after each argument.

But besides that, there was John himself—brilliant, busy, serious, surprising, sensitive, independent, trouble making, kind, paradoxical John. John had been keeping Sherlock on his toes. Sherlock flopped onto the sofa with a sigh.

John's condition hadn't changed much since he'd been back with Sherlock. There were the night terrors—mostly memories of his drunken father, Sherlock had learned. John would start screaming in the middle of the night and Sherlock would fly to his side to try and soothe him. The violin worked wonders. John's memory remained selective and Sherlock was adding new and often strange things to the list of remembrances daily.

Yesterday they were in Lestrade's office to get an update on the case—_John's case_. Lestrade and Sherlock had been arguing about the proper care of John in quiet, but tense tones when John reached up and asked for Sherlock's hand.

"Pwease?" he requested. Sherlock and Lestrade exchanged puzzled glances and Sherlock gave over his hand to John.

"Lunate, Scaphoid, Capitate, Trapezium, Triquetrum, Pisiform, Trapezoid, Hamate." John listed rhythmically, tapping the locations of each bone in Sherlock's long hand. "Metacarpals, Proximal phalanges, Middle phalanges, Distal phalanges." He finished, tripping out the words in his own childish voice. He looked up at them and smiled.

Sherlock and Lestrade stared, slack-jawed.

_Four hundred and ninety-six: bones of the hand. _He added to John's memory bank. _Medical knowledge—to be explored. _Sherlock placed at the top of his mental to-do list. Later in the day he had quizzed John on the skeletal structure of the human body. John remembered it all. Curious to see how extensive this vein of memory was, Sherlock had spent the majority of the afternoon and well into the night questioning John about all sorts of medical trivia. John was for all intensive purposes still a doctor, albeit a doctor in a four year-old's body. John's medical knowledge was vast—broader and deeper than Sherlock had ever suspected of the army doctor. This was quiet interesting.

"Sherwock," John called, pulling him out of his reverie.

"Yes, John?" Sherlock answered lazily.

"Sherwock, It's me. I'm back." It was that older voice again, disguised by the childish one, but still there all the same.

"Oh, John." Sherlock sat up like he'd been struck. John was having another "lucid episode" as Sherlock had dubbed the times when John's mind was thirty-four again.

"Well, don't just mope there looking at me with that pitying look. We haven't got long." John's eyes were sad. Older John was always sad.

"I know, I know. It's still just… shocking, these… episodes that come and go."

"I understand. They're pretty strange for me too." He made a quiet exclamation. "I forgot what being a kid was like. It's strange." A sad laugh.

"You seem like a happy child." Sherlock began, adding gently, "Even if you didn't have a happy childhood."

John's small face darkened. "You know." He stated simply, resigned.

"Yes, I believe I do."

"I suppose it's for the best. 'Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other.'" He quoted. "Now I guess you do. Know the worst that is." John sighed. He made a weak gesture to his arms and raised a questioning eyebrow.

Sherlock nodded.

Changing the subject, "Any progress?" John asked.

"Some." Sherlock lied. There really wasn't much to go on. "Liam was cryptic and vague in his writings on the subject of the, er, serum. If we could just find his personal notes, the recipe or Liam himself… Appears he's run off and gone into hiding. Lestrade thinks he's gone to America, Mycroft suspects Russia. We don't have have any leads either way other than a few acquaintances in both places."

John noticed Sherlock's what-they-think-is-wrong-as-always face.

"But," John prompted.

"But, I think Liam's still here, still in London."

"Because,"

"Because, you're his, er, experiment. The first human test subject. He's here. He's watching—from a distance of course, but watching nonetheless. He _needs_ to know the effects of the serum, he needs to observe and take notes. He wouldn't trust such a personal and important task to an underling—no. He'd have to do it himself—is doing it himself. He's here. Somewhere." Sherlock said as he turned about the room, ruffling his dark curls, gesturing excitedly.

John nodded. "Makes sense."

"But enough about the case," Sherlock began, remembering something Lestrade and Mycroft had told him. "It's been brought to my attention that I should use these… opportunities to ask you about yourself and your preferences as a child so I can make you as comfortable as possible while we work to sort this out. So, what dis you like as a four year old?"

John laughed. It started as a low chuckle but soon rose to a bubbly, giggly pitch. Sherlock paled fearing he'd missed his chance, that Little John was back in place of the older.

John noticed, "Don't worry. I'm still thirty-four. I just found it funny that you're taking Mycroft's advice." He giggled again, mirth brightening his eyes.

"Ah, yes, that." Sherlock muttered, relieved. "But do answer the question, John."

John furrowed his brow thoughtfully. "Thirty years is an awful long time ago." He began. "But, I remember liking spaghetti, ravioli—pretty much anything Italian. My mother loved Italian." He paused with a distant look that caused Sentiment to give Sherlock's heart a little squeeze. Sherlock had done some research. He knew what happened shortly after John's fifth birthday, knew what caused that look.

"What else?" Sherlock pushed, trying to take John's mind off his last train of thought.

"Hmm, I was quite fond of toast and jam, peanut butter sandwiches—just peanut butter and bread. Strange I know. Er, I liked watching telly and going to the park. I liked tea and sweets, but mummy wouldn't let me have much unless it was a special day." He smiled, half happy half sad. "I was a sort of loner even then, not much for play dates. Loved classical music, especially violin." They both glanced at Sherlock's violin. "I liked to draw. I remember being read to, that was nice. Can't think of much else."

"That should give us plenty to do for now." Sherlock told him.

John nodded, military style—shoulders squared head dipping quickly, precisely. "I'm going again. Goodbye Sherlock."

And then the child was back, happy, smiling, giggling. No trace of the serious, tired army doctor.

Sherlock returned his attention to his research with new vigor. "There's something here! Something I'm missing!" He growled.


	7. Chapter 7

**_A/N: Not entirely happy with the way this one turned out, but I hope y'all like it. Another chapter will be posted as soon as I'm done with it. As always, let me know what you think! Virtual otters to ThisDayWillPass, Elizabeth Mary Holmes, Raychaell Dionzeros and talonxdreamer-your reviews made my day! :)  
Disclaimer: I got nothing but the plot! Sherlock, etc. Belong to Doyle and BBC and others luckier than me!_**

_Seventy-one hours, twenty-three minutes and thirty seconds. Thirty-one. Thirty-two. Thirty-three. _Sherlock forced his mental clock into the white-noise background of his mind. "Forty-eight." He lied to Lestrade.

"Sherlock I've seen you after forty-eight hours without sleep before. You never looked like this." He waved a hand indicating Sherlock's appearance. He was disheveled and paler than normal, his face taunt and drawn. His eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep and dark bags were beginning to form. There was a primal, desperateness to the darting of his tired eyes. He was wearing the same shirt and slacks Lestrade had seen him in two days ago and his shock of curly hair was a mess of tangles. "You've got to be pushing seventy-two at least." Lestrade's brow creased with concern.

_Seventy-one hours, twenty-five minutes and fifteen seconds._ "I'm fine." Another lie. Sherlock was anything but fine.

"Sherlock." Lestrade warned.

"Alright, I'm not fine! It's been almost a month since I found John and there's been no change in his condition, no leads, no cure, no sign of that damned Doctor Liam! I have every reason not to be fine! And I fail to see what admitting that helps!"

Lestrade looked dumbstruck by Sherlock's outburst.

Sherlock rubbed his face with both hands for a moment and when his hands returned to his sides his mask of indifference was back.

Changing his tune Sherlock asked, "How's the other case coming?"

Lestrade thought about lying, but after one more look at Sherlock's haggard face and that hungry, angry look still smoldering in his eyes he thought better of it. "Here, take the file. You'd end up stealing it eventually anyway."

Sherlock nodded, snatching the manila folder from Lestrades hands hovering over the contents. He obviously wanted to flip through the reports, but he knew there'd be pictures and he wasn't sure he could stomach that. "How many reports?" he asked instead.

"Only one." Lestrade replied sadly.

"It was investigated?"

"Of course."

"Then I assume he was convicted?" It was meant to be a statement, but it came out as a question.

Lestrade paused. "No."

"How?" Sherlock growled.

"Just read the report." Lestrade shook his head, studying the tops of his shoes, wishing he were anywhere else in London tonight.

Sherlock opened the file gingerly. "Concerned neighbor calls the police when they see their neighbor's child with a bruise on his face." Sherlock paraphrases in an emotionless monotone voice.

Lestrade nods.

"Police make a house call to question the family. Father says child tripped, mother and sister corroborate. The child, when questioned alone also says he tripped in his room and hit his head. Everything in the home seems to be in order, nothing suspicious. Family are told to take child to hospital to get the bruise checked out." The monotone ends as Sherlock flips to the back of the file and sees the picture.

It's John, just as he is now. Sandy hair messy, blue eyes serious. The only difference is that in the photo there's a purply, greenish bruise on his left cheek.

Sherlock growls. "Of course he didn't just trip and fall down." He blurts. "Look at the shape of the bruise." He mumbles something about the incompetence of Scotland Yard under his breath. Lestrade chose not to take it personally and actually found himself agreeing with Sherlock this time.

"This wasn't the only time." Sherlock said.

"Just the only time he almost got caught." Lestrade agreed.

"He got smarter, avoided the face and arms." Sherlock observed mechanically. Then, with venom, "Where's the bastard now? He can't be more than seventy."

"Sherlock." Lestrade warned, guessing Sherlock's intentions.

Sherlock gave him a scathing glare. "I wasn't suggesting anything illegal. Just a little chat, maybe a short walk… out of a second story window."

"Drop it." Lestrade said. "We have a much more important case going, remember?"

"Of course." Was Sherlock's verbal reply, but Lestrade feared he wouldn't let this go.

"Samuel C. Watson was a no good drunk who liked to beat his little boy."

"Who liked to beat _John._" Sherlock corrected.

"I'd like to beat the shit out of John's father myself, Sherlock, but right now we have to worry about John and finding Liam and making everything right again." Lestrade said.

Sherlock was unreadable, just the smallest hint of angry fire in his eyes. He held Lestrade's gaze.

"After all of this," Lestrade said with sweep of his arms. "Then you can take on this as a new case, but not now."

Sherlock nodded, almost imperceptibly. "Fine." He handed the file back.

"Good." Lestrade cleared his throat.

Suddenly Sherlock flopped down on the sofa and faced the wall. "Out."

"What?" Lestrade asked.

"Get out." He repeated. "I need to think."

Lestrade sighed and rubbed his face, tired. "Fine, but you get some sleep, yeah?" he asked. "You won't be any good to anyone without some rest soon."

Sherlock stared stoically at the wall.

"John's out like a light for the night, take the chance to sleep. That's not a suggestion."

Still no response.

"I'll tell Mycroft to get involved." Lestrade threatened.

Finally, "Fine. I'll sleep. Now get out." The last word was followed by a yawn.

"Good." Satisfied, Lestrade made a quiet exit.

Sherlock was asleep before the front door was shut behind Lestrade.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: Here's a box of virtual tissues... just in case. A heartfelt thank you to the wonderful ThisDayWillPass, Elizabeth Mary Holmes, rukushaka, and Raychaell Dionzero. A promise to ThisDayWillPass: Lawstwade will be making an appearance again soon! ^_^  
This will be my last update for a while. After this I'll be updating weekly (with the possibility of bonus updates if y'all review enough). You can expect another chapter on next Tuesday. Unless I get 10 or more reviews, then I'll post the next chapter sooner (why, yes, yes I am holding updates hostage for reviews.) As always R&R! I can't wait to hear what y'all think of this chapter!  
Disclaimer: Only the plot and OCs are mine.  
Enjoy. :)**

"Sherwock?" John called quietly.

Silence.

"Sherwock." A little louder.

Nothing.

"Sherwock." Louder.

Still no sound came from the other room.

"Sherwock." Slightly worried.

A quiet moan.

"Sherwock!" Much louder, very worried.

Another moan and then, "I'm up. What is it John?" Followed by the solid thunk of Sherlock's feet hitting the floor and softly padding across the living room.

John relaxed. He was still in 221B and Sherlock was still here, he'd just been sleeping on the sofa in the other room. Good.

"John, you alright?" Sherlock asked, opening the door and peeking in.

"I'm not sure." John said, throwing off the covers and standing up.

Sherlock stared, shocked. "You've grown. A lot." John was several inches taller, more mature and his pajamas looked like they'd been shrunk in the wash. He'd grown at least a year's worth over night? Unlikely, but then again…

Sherlock realized that sometime between calling out and now Little John had been replaced by Proper John. "I'm five." He stated, expressionless.

Sherlock's mind spun through his line of deductions in seconds, when he finished he spit out his conclusion mechanically. "You're aging at an accelerated speed, but not daily. You age normally for a time, but then you age an entire year almost instantaneously. This most likely occurs at regular intervals. Every twenty-eight days makes a year for you."

"I suppose it makes as much sense as anything else does." John said. "At least at this rate I'll be back to my right age in twenty-nine months. That's just a little over two years. Better than thirty, right?" John attempted to smile, but stopped when he saw Sherlock's face. "What is it?"

Sherlock met his eyes briefly then looked away. "Nothing, it's nothing."

"It's not nothing, Sherwock, even I can deduce that just by looking at you." John felt worry start to dig at his belly. Sherlock had thought of more than he was willing to let on and it wasn't good.

Sherlock stood straighter, looking at the ceiling, the walls, his bare feet, anything but John. John still wasn't used to seeing Sherlock without his unfeeling, uncaring mask and now he saw traces of emotions he feared—Fear, pity, despair were all taking turns at playing Sherlock's usually set features.

"Sherwock, you don't avoid looking me in the eye over nothing—you were able to look me in the eye even after you burned my favorite jumper, even after you almost blew up the flat with us in it." A frustrated pause then, "Tell me." This was Captain Watson speaking—commanding.

Sherlock closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Fine." But he didn't continue.

"Sherwock."

"I've just realized an unpleasant possibility."

John waited more-or-less patiently.

"What if it doesn't stop at thirty-four?" Sherlock finally said.

"What do you mean?" John asked, worry gnawing away, clawing at John's insides.

"What if it doesn't stop at thirty-four? What if you continue to age like this until…?"

"Oh." John hadn't thought of that. How long would he have in that case? "Six, seven years at the most, then." He stated in the doctor voice he reserved for speaking of the fatally wounded and terminally ill.

Sherlock nodded sadly.

John was the first to break the heavy silence. "Well, no use worrying about possibilities that can't be helped. Not yet anyway."


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: So, I decided not to wait until tomorrow so... Merry Christmas! ;) A very big thank you to Moriarty is King, ThisDayWillPass, kyothefallenkit, rukushaka, Raychaell Dionzeros, Azteka, Nonimouse, and "Guests". Virtual violins for you all! I probably would have given up this little story if it weren't for y'all. Read and Review... in John's voice: "Pease!" :)  
Disclaimer: As always: Only the plot and OCs are mine.**

Sherlock sat perfectly still, hands steepled under his chin, body relaxed, face set and expressionless in an ornamental arm chair with an air that was deceptively calm. The man behind the British Government sat behind an imposing desk. The two spoke without saying a word. Each deducing the activities of the other.

Looking over Mycroft with a glance Sherlock noticed that Mycroft was off his diet and was only averaging four hours of fitful sleep per night. There was an almost imperceivable drop in vanity—his suit was wrinkled slightly at the shoulders, his shoes were not buffed to their usual shine and his brolly had been haphazardly closed. Mycroft wasn't concerned—Mycroft Holmes didn't suffer from caring nor did he worry about anything other than Sherlock—but he was something… disturbed might be a good word for it.

Mycroft gathered just as much from his quick visual shakedown of Sherlock's person. Sherlock had gone to considerable trouble to appear relaxed and put together, but Mycroft saw through the facade. A greater than normal lack of sleep and lack of food made Sherlock's face paler and tighter than usual with dark circles fully formed beneath his sharp eyes. Even with his face set in mock indifference Mycroft could see the shallow lines on Sherlock's brow that had been made by deep concentration and maybe a touch of concern. That was to be expected, Sherlock was on a case after all, but what was different this time was the redness rimming his bloodshot eyes—tears had fallen, but Sherlock never cried. Mycroft didn't know what to make of his deductions.

Finally, "You've been crying." Mycroft said in his sickeningly sweet voice.

"And you've been off your diet and gotten sloppy about your appearance." Sherlock countered bitingly.

Mycroft ignored the comments, waiting on Sherlock to explain why he was here, why he'd been crying.

"He's aging again." Sherlock informed him.

"Oh?" One careless swing of his brolly. He shifted his posture, subtle body language asking Sherlock to continue.

"One year every twenty-eight days."

"Then whether or not we find a cure hardly matters." Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

"What if it doesn't stop at thirty-four?" Sherlock's voice broke in spite of himself.

"Oh." Mycroft's mind followed his brother's line of reasoning. His face darkened at the prospect. "Oh." He repeated, softer, realizing that Sherlock's conclusion was quite possible and more than likely—they knew the serum had side effects, abnormal aging being one of them, they had no reason to believe the side effects would disappear once John hit his actual age.

"I. Will. Find. Him." Sherlock said haltingly. _I. Will. Kill. Him._ Went unsaid, but was equally understood.

Mycroft nodded. "Anything I can do." He offered, worried about what would happen to Sherlock if he had to watch John wither and die. He would do anything to prevent that.

Sherlock nodded quietly. Bowing his head in a moment of introspection he pinched the bridge of his nose absentmindedly. Finally a quiet exclamation then, "What if he remembers?"

He didn't say it out loud, but Mycroft knew exactly what he was talking about. "We have no reason to believe he will since he hasn't already."

"But he's remembering new things every day. It's only a matter of time before he remembers Afghanistan, before he remembers my…" Sherlock couldn't bring himself to say the word.

Sherlock's fall had nearly destroyed John the first time—the cane and the tremor returned, John shut himself up and away from the world. He'd refused to see anyone or to be seen, never leaving the flat except at night and only rarely. Sherlock had been off hunting down Moriarty's web and Mycroft had promised to look after John in his absence. For a while they assumed it was just normal grieving, but as days stretched into weeks, which stretched into months, which stretched into an entire year they began to worry. John, the dependable doctor and soldier became erratic and deeply depressed. He posted a goodbye message on his blog, simply stating: "Nothing happens to me anymore." As his reason for giving it up.

Mycroft took precautionary measures. John's gun quietly disappeared along with most of the cutlery. They thought they were safe. They thought wrong.

One night John left the flat, but instead of heading to the shop or pub Mycroft's men tracked him to St. Bart's, where in the dark he went to the roof. This didn't look good—and it wasn't. The recording from that evening was still hard for Sherlock to hear. Thankfully, Mycroft's men had been there, had intervened at the last moment. John Watson the soldier put up quite the struggle, managing to gift Mycroft's men each a broken nose and several cracked ribs before the former Special Forces were able to safely subdue him.

John told Mycroft he'd try again, that living without his best friend and flatmate was just too much for him to handle. Mycroft knew that steely look in the doctor's eye and decided it was best that he divulge that most secret of secrets now that Sherlock had taken care of the majority of Moriarty's operation. There could be little harm in telling and there may be great harm in withholding the truth any longer.

Sherlock could still see the pained, broken look in John's eye when they were reunited. There was betrayal and hurt and sadness clouding those blue eyes. Sherlock had felt so guilty—_still_ felt so guilty. There had been tears and anger and finally forgiveness, but it had taken months to restore their friendship.

Sherlock didn't know if John could handle reliving all of that, especially as a child. Honestly, Sherlock didn't know if he could survive the blow of seeing all that hurt and pain and accusation on that young countenance. How could he stand to see John's childish, laughing eyes darkened by the shadows of those painful days?

For the millionth time Sherlock wished there had been another way. For the millionth time he concluded that there hadn't been any other way. But knowing John's past made it worse somehow. It added a new depth to the abandonment and loss.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock shook himself and looked up, banishing those traitorous thoughts as he did so. "Hmmm?"

"Nothing." Mycroft said after a thoughtful moment.

Beat.

"What can I do?" Mycroft asked, earnestly.

"He's still in London and he's watching John. I need for you to stop looking elsewhere and start putting those damned CCTV cameras to use. Comb the bloody city for him. I know you can."

Mycroft sniffed and gave an almost imperceptible nod, as close to an "as you wish" as Sherlock could hope for.

Loathing the words, but finding them singularly appropriate Sherlock spat out awkwardly, "Thank you." And made a quick and thoroughly dramatic exit, his coat swishing behind him.


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: Appologies for a shorter chapter, but life's been rather hectic! I hope I make up for what I lack in quanity witht he quality of this chapter. And... back by popular demand is Lawstwade! :D Virtual hugs for all of my wonderful reviewers! Y'all are the kick in the pants I needed to keep writing this story! ;) Enjoy, read, review!**

"Lawstwade!" John called excitedly as he ran to greet the DI at the top of the stairs.

"Hullo John!" Lestrade returned, grinning at the cheeky toddler. "What've you been up to then?"

"Nuffin!" John cries out then falls into a fit of giggles as Lestrade tickles him.

Sherlock gives a humph of disagreement from somewhere else in the flat.

"Oi! I don't believe that for a second you cheeky little monster!" And Lestrade tickles the the little blond boy. "You've grown. Been eating your veggies?" he asks, suddenly realizing how John's ages since he saw him last.

"Sherwock says I'm five now." John stands a little taller, shoulders back like he's at attention for inspection. He looks every bit the little soldier and the thought sobers Lestrade.

"Where is Sherlock, John?"

"In here Lestrade." Sherlock calls from the kitchen, clearly impatient.

Lestrade squats to John's level once more, "Eh, look here." He begins as he searches through the bag he brought that John's been eying suspiciously since he arrived. Lestrade pulls out a stuffed animal, a shaggy dog with golden fur and big brown eyes. It had reminded him of John when he'd seen it in the store—loyal, brave, blond, with big pitiful eyes that looked like they could convince you to just about anything.

"Puppy!" John crowed in delight, squeezing the stuffed toy around the neck and then holding it gently.

An exasperated sigh issues forth from the kitchen, "I hope that's not a real one, Lestrade."

"Don't worry, it's not." Lestrade answers with a laugh.

"Good." Then, in a bored, afterthought sort of tone, "What do you say, John?"

"Thank you, Lawstwade!" John smiles up at Lestrade, all big blue eyes and cherub cheeks and flashing baby teeth.

"You're welcome, Johnny boy." Lestrade says.

John's face crumples and a tear comes to his eye.

"Don't call him that." Sherlock warns.

"Why?" Lestrade gives Sherlock a questioning glance as he walks into the room and scoops John up.

Sherlock gives him a meaningful glare, clearly saying, _Not now._

"It's alright John. Lestrade didn't know. Shhh. It's okay." Sherlock says softly, wiping the tear from John's cheek. "What's this?" he asks with a gesture to the dog.

"Puppy." John noticeably brightens.

"What a good puppy it is too." Sherlock pets the stuffing-filled head. "Now, why don't you and Puppy go play in your room or my room while Lestrade and I chat?"

John looks disappointed, but complies, giving Lestrade a passing cuddle and heading up the stairs to his bedroom-turned-play-room.

"What'd I say?" Lestrade finally asks once John's upstairs.

"Johnny boy." Sherlock wrinkles his nose. "That's what John's father called him when he was in a rage apparently."

"Oh."

"Seems John has many triggers, but we're learning to cope." Sherlock says somewhat distantly.

"New memories?" An edge of worry creeping into Lestrade's voice.

"Oh, tons, but nothing too terrible yet… Not his mothers passing or Afghanistan or the Fall."

"Good." Lestrade releases a breath he didn't even remember holding. "Good." He repeats to himself.

"His medical knowledge continues to grow. He taught me how to properly set a broken arm yesterday and walked me through the steps of surgery prep as we got dressed this morning. He remembers more of his home life. He remembers how to pick on Mycroft, which I find most… amusing." Sherlock smirks, remembering John's wicked grin after asking Mycroft about his diet.

"I'm sure you do." Lestrade laughs, remembering the few times he'd seen the Holmes brothers together and recalling just how much they seemed to enjoy bugging each other. "But," and his voice waxes serious. "This isn't why you asked me here."

"No. It isn't."

"Then why?" Lestrade pushes for a straight answer.

"I'm sure you've noticed John's aging." Sherlock begins carefully and then launches into the whole spiel, pointing out his fears.

"Oh shit." Lestrade breathes out finally.

Sherlock nods, hands folded as if in prayer.

"What can I do?"

"Look for Doctor Christopher Liam. He's here and he's the key to fixing John."

"Of course. Whatever I can do." Greg sighs.

"Lawstwade!" John calls as he hops speedily down the stairs. "Sherwock!"

The two the Consultant and the Detective both look up.

"I wanna go to the pawk, pease?" He looks up at them, big blue eyes made bigger for the occasion.

The detectives exchange glances. How can you refuse that face?

"I'm free for the afternoon." Lestrade says.

"Fine, John." Sherlock says feigning exasperation. "Let's go to the park." he tries to hide his grin.

John looks pleased and trots upstairs for his shoes, returning a moment later asking for assistance with the laces. Lestrade obliges the request.

XXXXXXXXXX

Sherlock and Lestrade are standing shoulder to shoulder happily watching John as he romps about from one piece of playground equipment to another. John soon discovers the slide and begins what appears to be an endless cycle of up the ladder and down the slide.

"Watch me! Watch me!" John cries joyfully as he slides down for the umpteenth time.

"We're watching." Lestrade assures him with a laugh.

It's amazing how their admiration for the man John was so easily morphed into fondness for the boy he is now. They both can't help the spark of parental protectiveness that's grown in their chests—even the self-proclaimed sociopath has to admit to himself that he actually _cares_ for little John.

Apparently tired of the slide John runs on stubby legs over to the swings on the other side of the playground. The two adults watch as John struggles to pull himself into one of the swings.

"Need some help?" Lestrade calls out, but the words die on his lips. He swears instead and breaks into a run, Sherlock on his heels.

Seemingly out of nowhere a man appears behind John. Sherlock and Lestrade watch in horror as the mystery man grabs the boy from behind and presses a cloth over the struggling child's face. John stops protesting and the man unceremoniously picks him up and begins to run out of the park with John's protectors close behind, but not quite close enough. They lose sight of John's jumper-clad form as he and his abductor jump into a waiting car.

"Damn!" Sherlock yells, eyes burning, lungs and heart pumping furiously. He commits what he's seen to memory. Abductor: male, white, six foot, lean build, mid forties, dressed casual in light wash jeans and a tee shirt and wearing sneakers made for running. Car: Unmarked, dark blue, Ford Focus, covered plates, headed east.

Lestrade is talking on the phone, Sherlock's not listening.

"—Lock! Sherlock!" Lestrade finally gets through to Sherlock.

"Hmmm." Sherlock hums as he notices that Lestrade's finished his phone call.

"Your deductions?" Lestrade asks, looking hopeful. His eyes are full of worry and his silvery hair is mussed from running anxious fingers through it.

"Kidnapping. Well thought out, expertly planned, most likely done this before." He begins slowly and then he starts building up speed 'til it's all tumbling out in a rush. " Kidnapper isn't the interested party, just a lackey hired for the job. He's in his mid forties, lives alone in a windowless flat—most likely a basement, former military and dishonorably discharged, career criminal now. Could be a random kidnapping, but doubtful. John's no random child and if you're hunting for children there are much easier locations for a snatch and grab. Car's new, but already been abandoned by now. They have a holding location near by, probably within the city. John's not in any immediate physical danger, but the psychological trauma will be rather extensive I imagine." He takes a breath. "They're clever," He finally admits, "but not clever enough." He finishes with a low growl. "I will find him."


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: So, so, so sorry for being so late with the update! I have no excuses, but I do have several really good reasons that I hope you'll all accept. 1, my mema had a stroke (she's fine now, but she's living with me now) and 2, I have a terrible cold. Any way, this chapter is rather short and and not much of a plot mover, but I like it and I hope you will too! New chapter will be posted as soon as it's written to make up for the delay on this one!  
Warnings: Brief mention of self-harm.  
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.**

John woke up with a start, cold, tired and hungry, with this niggling little feeling in the back of his head that told him he ought to be afraid. Afraid? That couldn't be right. He was five years-old and he had Sherlock. He had Sherlock, who promised to keep father away, who promised to take care of him and take him to the park, who cared about him. See, he had nothing to be afraid of. But then, with a terrible rush of emotions and sensation, feelings and _memories_ he remembered everything. He wasn't five, not really, and there was no Sherlock to come and save him.

He's six and his mummy was dead and buried.

He's ten and his father was raging drunk. _Again._

He's twelve and Harry was leaving him, fleeing home with Clara, leaving John all alone.

He's thirteen and he was cutting, letting his arms shed tears of blood because his eyes couldn't shed any more real tears.

He's sixteen and he was running away, looking for a cause—a purpose—to fill the void.

He's twenty and struggling through Uni.

He's twenty-four, he's a doctor and he's joining the army. He's found his cause.

He's twenty-eight and he's gained something of a reputation as a doctor and as a crack shot. Now he's taking lives as well as saving them.

He's thirty and John's seen so many men die—many at his own hand. He's lost many a friend and he's failed so many patients that never really had a chance.

John's thirty-four and he's dying and the doctor in him knows it, but the soldier can't except it. His shoulder is obliterated and his life's blood is seeping into the hot Afghani sand and he's begging God not to let him die.

He's still thirty-four and somehow he survived that insurgent's bullet, but now he's fighting off a terrible infection and everything hurts.

John's thirty-five with a ruined shoulder, two ruined careers, a psychosomatic limp, and nightmares. He's been invalided home to England and he's so alone. He's begging God to let him die because he can't stand to be so pathetically useless, so purposeless and as much as he hates to admit it, he misses the war.

He's still thirty-five, but now he's alive again, he had a purpose, he wasn't alone—he has Sherlock.

He's thirty-seven and he was forced to watch his best and only friend die. He's broken and alone. _Again. _Life is colorless and it means nothing to him because nothing happens to him any more.

John's thirty-eight and he's ready to die. Even at his own hand.

He's thirty-eight and Sherlock was back. The world was right again.

He's five again and he has been kidnapped. Sherlock may not be here, but he is coming.

He was John Watson and he had felt pain and he had been afraid and alone. He was John Watson and he did as he always did, he ignored that irritating bell of alarm in the back of his head and he found courage in the face of fear.

Five year old John opened his eyes, looked into the face of his captors and smiled.


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: Sorry again for being so slow and I don't even have a good excuse this time. *shrug* Hope this chapter makes up for it though. This one's Sherlock-centric. We'll see more of John in the next chapter. As always, I love reviewers and I promise to lavish all sorts of virtual goodies on you all. ^_^ (No, I'm not above bribery ;)) Hugs and thanks to all of my wonderful reviewers thus far! Y'all served as my motivation to finally finish this chapter. If you see any errors please PM me and let me know so I can correct them. All errors are my own fault since I haven't got a beta to either thank or blame. :P lol Anyway, I'm not usually one for such long notes so, on to the story:**

**Disclaimer: Obviously I own nothing, but the story itself. Characters, etc. belong to others luckier than I. I'm not even sure why I bother with these disclaimers any more.**

_Think. Thinkthinkthink. _Sherlock pushed the palms of his hands against his temples and shut his eyes. _John's gone. Gone. They've taken him. Who are they? _His mind rambled on at a hundred miles per hour, jumping from thought to thought to thought. _Focus! John is gone. Kidnapped. By who? Don't know. Why? Don't know. Think. John is gone._ And then his mind was filled with image after image of John, five year old John, frightened and surrounded by strangers in a strange place and—_Oh, what's happening to him? _His mind began to supply images for that too. He growled. _No. Nonono! Stop it. Focus. Find John. Answers—who, why, where. Think relevant. Data, need more data._ But his mind would not give up, Sentiment insisted on reminding him every other thought that—_John is gone. Kidnapped by decidedly bad men and who knows what's happening—no not this again. _Sherlock shook his head furiously. _Think logically. Sentiment won't help John now. Logic, relevant. That's what John needs._

Sherlock was suddenly aware of someone talking. _Ignore. Not relevant._ Then there were hands gripping either side of his head. _Annoying. May be relevant. _He forced himself to focus on the face that he suddenly found so close to his own. _Lestrade. Looks frantic, sounds urgent. Should probably listen._ He tuned himself in.

"Listen to me. Sherlock! Listen." Lestrade was saying.

_Fine, fine! I'm listening now. Hurry up. I need data, I need to find John!_ Sherlock's mind was screeching. He forced himself to nod.

"Listening?"

Another nod.

"Finally." Lestrade sighed, looking at Sherlock's face intently for another moment then, "Focus Sherlock. John needs you to focus. And he needs you to cooperate with me and the rest of the Yard. Don't go off and do something stupid. We both want the same thing here—John, back safe and sound, yeah?"

Sherlock blinked. Maybe Lestrade was getting better at reading people or maybe Sherlock's mask was slipping, either way Sherlock realized Lestrade was right. "Yeah." He managed hoarsely.

"Good." Lestrade nodded once and released the consulting detective.

Sherlock ran his long fingers through his unruly curls in a failed attempt to hide the fact that they were shaking. Sherlock would have been fascinated by his body's physical reactions under different circumstances, but he was in no state to be amused. He was terrified, worried, angry—so many emotions. _How do people normally cope with all of this sentiment? It's insane. Ask John. John. Oh. John's gone. Focus. Find John._

Sherlock forced himself to look around, to listen. More yarders had arrived—_good. Maybe they can make themselves useful_. They were searching the area—_won't find anything. Too clever._ Others were questioning witnesses—_good. Someone may have seen something. Now, think._

_Who could have done this? Too broad, too many possibilities. Be more specific. Who would want to kidnap John? Again, too many answers. Narrow it down. Those with the knowledge of John's current condition and the means and motivation to kidnap John: Mycroft—wouldn't dare. Doctor Christopher Liam—possible and probable. Moriarty—does he know? Probably. Then, possibly him, yes. So, Liam or Moriarty. Why would Liam kidnap John after waiting this long? He can collect as much observational data as he needs from a distance and remain much safer that way. Unless something has happened and he needs John for some physical experimentation. Moriarty's motivations are much more obvious. He's still cross about my not dying and very much set on "burning out my heart." Very strong motive. Could Moriarty know about John's condition? Yes. Calculations: Fifty-eight percent likelihood of it being Moriarty, forty percent for Liam, two percent for the rest of the population. Ninety-nine percent certain of calculations. Conclusion: Moriarty has taken John. John's gone. _He shut down the emotions that were threatening to bubble to the surface. _No time for panic now. _Try as hard as he might he couldn't completely erase the dull ache in his chest. Sociopath indeed.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade was calling to him again Sherlock realized. It'd probably be best to answer.

Sherlock managed a noncommittal grunt between despairing thoughts.

"You've obviously got something. Gimme."

"Moriarty has John." Sherlock replied, emotionless.


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: So sorry for the long wait! ****_Again. _****I know, I'm sorry. I had a harder time writing this chapter. Little John can be a challenging character to write. Anyway, enough excuses and preamble. Just note that I am posting this chapter raw (barely glanced over) in order to get it published sooner so it's bound to have errors. If you see any too glaring then please mention them in a review or PM. Please enjoy and review if you can! A shout out and thanks to all of the lovely people that reviewed the last chapter and encouraged me to keep at it! Virtual hugs and chocolate for you all!  
Disclaimer: This is the part where I point out the obvious (that I own nothing but my own plot), thank some important people (Moffat, Gatiss, ACD), and tell you I'm broke (and hope no one sues me). ;)**

John blinked in unexpected brightness and peered up to find two faces very near his own. One he recognized as the man who had kidnapped him in the park the other he recognized as a much more familiar face—Moriarty. He smiled at them in feigned innocence. _How much do they know?_ He wondered. John took a moment to let his eyes wander around the room—four white walls, one door straight ahead, no windows, one table in front of him, one chair under him. The lock on the door looked simple, promising.

"Johnny, Johnny, Johnny." Moriarty sing-songed. "Long time no see _little one_. Do you remember your uncle Jim?" Moriarty's face looked hopeful, but unsure.

_So, Moriarty doesn't know much. He knows who I am and what's happened, but he honestly—as far a Moriarty can be honest—doesn't know what I know. This is good._ John thought smugly. _I can work with this._ He tried not to let his inward grin show, tried to look scared. It must've worked. Pleased he added a trembling lower lip and stuttering speech for effect. "W-w-where's Sh-sh-Sherlock?" He widened his eyes. "Wh-who are y-you?"

Moriarty and the kidnapper stood up, Jim rocked back on his heels. His face seemed remarkably open and in that moment John saw disappointment and then new hope cross his face. "Seb, this could be nice. This could be _better_ even." He smiled, dark eyes glinting.

The man—Seb?—still had that same stern unreadable face. John easily recognized his military bearing, everything about him screamed soldier—stance, haircut, fixed facial expression, impressive physiology. _Maybe even some kind of special forces._ John started feeling like Sherlock and he inwardly smirked. _No noticeable injuries so not likely invalided plus he's working with Moriarty so I'm guessing dishonorable discharge._

Moriarty turned his attention back to John. The sadistic joy John saw there made him shudder.

"Oh, Johnny." He said in mock hurt. "Don't be like that Johnny boy. Sherlock's not here." He raised both hands and motioned around the room. "And he's not coming." The smile disappeared. "He doesn't _care._"

John knew that Moriarty couldn't be more wrong, but the words still triggered the five year old in him to cringe and tear up. He let the tears fall.

"So," Jim clapped his hands together and leaned close, the smile back. "No use worrying your little head about nasty old Sherlock anymore. Now you've got me! Uncle Jim'll fix everything."

John really didn't like the sound of that and he ha barely bit back the scathing replies that were bubbling up the back of his throat. He held his tongue and silently cried.

"Shh, shh, shh, Johnny boy. This won't do." Jim shook his head. "No need to cry. You're mine now." The Cheshire Cat grin was back. "Just think what you could become with the right upbringing." He turned to his companion. "Sebastian, he might even rival you one day."

Sebastian didn't seem to impressed with the idea. Moriarty's response was a ridiculously exaggerated pout. "Don't be that way, Sebby."

Sebastian's only reply was more silence.

"Well, anyway, Johnny boy, Daddy's had enough now. But don't worry, we'll be seeing a lot more of each other soon."

John really didn't like the sound of that.

Moriarty stood up and straightened his suit, mouthing "Westwood." Sebastian had already turned back to the door and Moriarty moved to follow.

John stopped the terrified toddler act once he was certain they were gone. _Escape. I have to escape._ He thought. He looked around the room. Thankfully there were no cameras. Moriarty was underestimating him, _again._ John didn't mind. John turned his full attention to the door. He scrambled down out of his chair and hurried over to the on tiptoe he jiggled the knob gently. This part would be easy.

It didn't take John long to force the simple lock. It took him twice as long to gather the nerve to open the door. _Just take a deep breath. You can do this._ He thought to himself. Finally, he inched the door open and thanked his lucky stars that the hinges didn't so much as squeak.

Military training kicking into high gear he surveyed the scene outside. Long hallway lay ahead, two closed doors on the right, one open doorway to the left farther down, straight ahead: what appeared to be the front door. So he was in a house? _Seems a little domestic for Moriarty. _John thought. Now having located the exit he moved on in his examination. One guard—big, brutish fellow with a Glock 17 tucked into the back of his slacks. He was about halfway down the hall with his back to John. _Great, just great. No way round him._ Trying to get the jump on a guard might have been a challenge for adult John, but, _being five years old does have it's advantages when it came to surprise attack._ John thought wryly. Especially when said five year old has extensive combat training and the precision that comes with being a physician.

John almost smiled. This might even be fun. And wouldn't Sherlock be surprised when John returned with full command of his faculties even if they were somewhat tainted by childish feelings and compulsions. _No more stalling. _John thought sternly. _Time for action._

John pushed the door open further and ran toward his guard. He managed to get within a couple of feet before the man began to turn, John threw all of his weight into a roundhouse kick to the side of the man's right knee. The knee gave and John took advantage to angle towards the front of his guard and aimed another kick to the crotch. The man groaned and doubled momentarily, all the while lashing out to grab John. John evaded his grasp and managed to get in an elbow to the face. He knew his child hands wouldn't do much against his attacker, but shooed feet and bony elbows, even in his diminished form were satisfyingly effective.

His attacker was now surprised, knocked off his feet, with a severe nosebleed and an aching crotch. The whole exchange took place in relative quiet. John was pretty sure he could make a run for it, but he didn't particularly like the look of that open doorway just ahead or the thought of leaving his guard with a gun. He decided to risk getting within arms reach of the guard in order to get his gun. Quickly he darted forward trying to make it around to the man's back and the Glock. John was so close when the man managed to reach out and grab him by the ankle. In a desperate last move John grabbed the Glock as he was dragged to the ground.

"You little brat!" The man roared grabbing John by the throat and pinning him to the floor and knocking the gun from his hand.

John was struggling to breathe. He groped around him desperately searching for the gun, thankful that the man appeared so blinded by his rage that he hadn't noticed the Glock. _There._ John sighed inwardly as he felt the gun under his fingers of his left hand. He gripped the gun tightly and aimed for the man's temple. His blow landed spot on and the guard's eyes rolled back briefly and his grip around John's throat loosened.

John scrambled to his feet and weighed his options quickly and carried out his decision with military efficiency. He drew, aimed, fired. Two shots—one for each knee. The man screamed and then passed out in a heap on the floor. John didn't have time to stick around and see what kind of response the commotions would elicit. He ran, lunged for the door and pulled at the knob desperately, the five year old in him kicking in. He had to get out. _Had _to. _Had _to find _Sherlock._

For one long, hopeless moment the knob wouldn't give. He could hear feet on stairs, shouts and cursing. They were coming. He felt trapped, helpless. Like a _child._ Then he was able to turn the lock and swing the door open. He stumbled out of the door and flew down the steps. He was out.


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N: Yes, I realize I've taken forever to update this. No, I haven't forgotten about it. I've been busy writing the Text fics with my partner in crime, Sherley Holmes (Shout out!), finishing my first novel, starting my second and collaborating on a humorous short story with the aforementioned partner in crime. ^_^ But, at last I have written not one, but two chapters for Little John! I know they're short, but hopefully having two in one night will make up for it! Anyway, I'm so very sorry for taking so long! Thank you to all of my lovely reviewers! You are what kept me from forgetting about poor Little John! I hope you enjoy and as always: please read and review! :D  
Disclaimer: I don't know why I bother with this anymore! Everyone knows that I am not Gatiss or Moffat or ACD and therefore I own nothing!**

Sherlock paced the length of Lestrade's office like a caged animal. His face may have been formed into that typical, emotionless facade, but his eyes gave him away. The fear, the worry, the desperation that Lestrade saw there sent a shiver down his spine. It had been six hours and they'd yet to find John. Hell, they'd yet to find even a _trace_ of John or his abductors. Moriarty and company had gotten away clean.

Lestrade grimaced, things weren't looking good. The Yard had done what it could by searching the area, setting up a perimeter, sending out alerts with the description of the vehicle and the attacker with no results. Sherlock had even resorted to contacting that mysterious brother of his. What Mycroft had had to say had chilled Greg to the bone. All of the CCTV cameras in the park and the surrounding area had been placed on a loop for more than and hour before the kidnapping and during. There was no footage of the crime. No leads.

Suddenly, Sherlock skidded to a halt.

"What is it?" Greg asked.

Sherlock pulled out his phone, but remained silent.

The DI tried to go back to his own thoughts, but another glance at Sherlock made that impossible. Was the man actually shaking? "Sherlock?"

"Damn!" Sherlock burst out, growling threateningly at his mobile. The mask dropped and for a moment Lestrade saw Sherlock displaying more emotion than ever—terrifying, raging, uncontrollable emotions. Rage, despair and anguish were portrayed so clearly that if Greg hadn't known better he would have thought Sherlock was in physical pain.

"What is it?" he demanded louder, more forcefully.

"_Moriarty,"_ Sherlock spit out the name with vehemence. Greg watched as the calm mask fought and won it's way back onto the consulting detective's face, but the eyes still burned. Sherlock handed Lestrade his phone.

Lestrade felt himself go tense as he read the text.

**From: BLOCKED**

**To: SH**

**Subject: Your Little Pet**

**Tsk, tsk, Sherlock. You really should keep a better eye on your **_**little **_**pet. Well, since you seem incompetent I guess it's up to me to raise him properly, eh? Oh, I'm sure Seb and I can make a fine little minion out of the lad with the right… **_**training.**_ —**JM**

Lestrade was furious. Lestrade was terrified. Their worst fears were confirmed—Moriarty had John. _Poor John, _he thought sadly.

Sherlock took his phone back and resumed pacing. Resumed trying to figure out the puzzle, trying to find a clue—to find John, he tried not to focus on the emotions wracking his body, tried not to picture what 'training' John might involve. He involuntarily shuddered and was shocked even more to find that a part of his great brain was actually praying. Normally he would have scoffed at the thought of a deity, but now? He was desperate. Didn't desperate times call for desperate measures? He embraced the thought for a moment and put his heart—what little he had—into it. _God, please bring him safely back to me._

Another hour passed. Sherlock paced, that massive brain of his trying to figure it all out. Lestrade alternated between thinking, running searches for Sherlock and making phone calls.

"Sir," Sally Donovan stuck her head into the office. Both men snapped to attention. "You're going to want to come out here."


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N: And here's the promised second chapter! Enjoy and please show some love and review! ^_^**

John practically fell into the street. _London._ He thought with a grateful smile. It wasn't so much that he recognized London, but that he recognized _home _with that instinctual ability that is unique to small children. It _felt_ like home, like London. Coming out of his brief reverie he barely managed to jump out of the way of a passing cab. Back into full fight-or-flight mode, heart pounding he didn't wait to look around he just ran. Dodging in and out of side streets, through alleys, zigzagging his way away from that hellhole of Moriaty's.

After what seemed like an eternity, but was closer to thirty minutes of weaving his way deeper into London he finally risked slowing down. John looked around desperately. It was a fairly busy part of London, but one he didn't recognize. He sighed in frustration. He needed to get to Sherlock. He needed to get as far away from Moriarty as possible. Making a snap decision John ran over to a woman who was preparing to get in a cab.

"Excuse me," John began politely, trying not to let his voice waver.

"Oh," The young woman said in surprise. "Can I help you?"

"Yes. Or at least I hope so. Would you mind sharing your cab with me?" John blurted out.

She looked confused and then concerned. "Are you alright?" She knelt down to John's level and motioned to the cabbie to wait a moment.

"Yeah, fine," He began out of habit, then thinking better of it he amended his statement, "Actually, no. No, I'm not fine. I've been kidnapped, but I got away and—and now I really need to get back to my—" Well, what exactly was Sherlock to John? "My family." _Yes, _John mused, _Sherlock is my family._ "If you could just take me to Scotland Yard, my—" Now, what was Greg to John? John decided to go with the first thought that his five-year old self suggested. "My uncle, Gweg Lawstwade, is a DI there."

The poor woman's face was crinkled with worry by the time John had finished his rushed explanation. She petted his arm and guided him to the cab. "Oh you poor dear! Of course I'll help you get back with your family."

John glanced around nervously, scanning the streets for his kidnappers. The woman did the same. "C'mon, dear, let's get you to your uncle. I'm sure your family's absolutely mad with worry," she told John.

"Where to?" asked the cabbie gruffly.

"New Scotland Yard, please." The woman replied.

John sank back into his seat, thoroughly exhausted now that the adrenaline was wearing off. "Thank you," he mumbled, fighting of sleep.

The blond woman next to him smiled down at him kindly and wondered at the brave little boy now sleeping with his head in her lap.


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N: I am soooo sorry for taking this long to update! I swear I haven't forgotten about Little John and I'm apologizing for such a short chapter. I figured I'd better post something and let y'all know I'm still alive and writing. Actually, my writing is one of the reasons this update has taken me so long! My Sherlock and I have been working on a callab series of short stories and have completed the first in the series and are currently working on the second. The series is called ****_Canon_**** and was orginally created as our own version of Sherlock where we can make every fanfic idea we love into canon. This the name. It's sorta morphed into its own thing now ans we love it. (If you'd like to read part of it, let me know) The other writing related reason for my lateness is the fact that I've embarked on the insane adventure known as NaNoWriMo and I'm working on my newest novel! You can find my NaNo profile here: (slash)participants(slash)the(dash)young(dash)rider. All very exciting for me, but I'm sure boring for you. Due to NaNo updates for all my fanfics will be really slow during November, but they'll pick back up in December so please stick with me. Anyway, long, annoying author note is over. Please enjoy this chapter! Reviews are magical and reviewers are automatically awesome. ~TYRider**

Impatiently, Sherlock and Lestrade rushed after Donovan. She led them through the offices and down to the NSY lobby.

"What is it?" Lestrade finally asked as the elevator doors opened.

Sally crossed her arms, "There's a woman here asking for you by name."

"Who is she? What does she want?" Lestrade demanded, obviously irritated at being drug away from the search for John. Sherlock was oddly silent.

They were walking across the lobby when a young woman with short blond hair stepped up to greet them. "Detective Inspector Lestrade?" She asked, Greg nodded. "Sherlock?" Sherlock waved a hand in acknowledgment. "My name is Mary Morstan. I believe I found your nephew."

Lestrade's mouth fell open, Sherlock's gaze began to dart around, looking for John.

"That's not the same little boy that got kidnapped in the park today is it? John's nephew?" Donovan asked, suddenly catching on.

Lestrade and Sherlock both ignored her question. They'd passed John off as his own nephew who was staying with Sherlock while John went to care for his ailing sister. That was the official story they told the Yard after the kidnapping anyway.

"Where is he?" Sherlock asked, suddenly finding his voice again, but unable to force his mind to deduce such a simple answer. Everything had shut down at the prospect of seeing John.

Everyone focused on the blond woman. "Right here," she stepped aside, revealing a familiar blond boy sleeping in the chair behind her.

"Thank God!" both Lestrade and Sherlock breathed.

"Is he hurt?" asked Greg.

"I don't think so. He seems exhausted, but fine," the woman informed them. "What happened? He said he'd been kidnapped, but he seemed alright."

"He was kidnapped," Lestrade informed her as Sherlock bent down to examine John closer.

"Oh no," she cast a worried glance at John. "I hoped maybe he'd just gotten lost and panicked and was exaggerating," she rambled, "Poor dear."

Meanwhile Sherlock was hovering over John, desperate to know he was alright, but afraid to touch and wake him. Finally, he reached out tentatively and brushed John's bangs from his forehead. He relaxed at the contact, finally assured that John was safe. His brain decided it could function again and Sentiment heaved a relieved sigh. All was right in the world now that John was back. Sherlock briefly wonder when that had happened, when the state of Sherlock's world had come to depend on John. Sherlock filed the thought away for later.

More confidently now, Sherlock carded his fingers through John's blond hair. Suddenly, John's eyes snapped open.

Sherlock froze, "You're safe," he blurted, then added, "Are you alright, John?"

John nodded slowly and sat up. "Yeah, I'm fine."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, "You're sure?"

"I'm a doctor, Sherwock, I'm pretty sure I'd know whether or not I'm fine."

Oh, so it was older John. "C'mon, let's get you up to Lestrade's office," Sherlock announced. Now that his mind was working again, he wanted answers. He offered his hand to John, who took it and together they left Lestrade behind to dismiss Ms. Morstan.

As they rode the lift up John began to giggle. Sherlock frowned, confused. He may not be very good with emotions, but he was pretty sure this wasn't a normal response to such an ordeal. Although, he did concede that John Watson wasn't very normal when it came to stress. "What is so funny?"

"Oh, I remembered thinking how pleased you'd be to know Moriarty is an idiot," John giggled out in his light, lisping voice.

"Oh?" Sherlock asked, curious.

"Yes," John answered enthusiastically, sounding much closer to five than he had a moment ago. Momentarily, Sherlock worried that older John might have disappeared again. His worries were relieved and then reawoken by John's next words. "He was dumb enough to leave me alone in a room with a simple bedroom door lock."


	17. Chapter 17

This is an apology. Sorry to disappoint you. This isn't a chapter or an update. I don't really have a good excuse. This story was always just a plot bunny that ran away with me. I never had a solid plot and I'm having a hard time creating one. So, I have a question for you all: would you rather I spend a while more trying to pull together a plot OR would you like for me to start posting some little fluffy/angsty domestic chapters? I have some ideas of my own and I'd be open to suggestions. Please let me know in the reviews or private message me!


	18. Chapter 18

**A/N: Thank you all so much for your encouraging words! Sorry, it took me so long, but I think I've finally worked out the plot! It may take me a while to write so I may throw in some fluffy chapters here and there also. Y'all are all wonderful. Also, I know this may seem out of place, but I would really appreciate it if y'all could pray for my family. My three-month-old niece was recently diagnosed with biliary atresia (a rare disease without a known cause where the body attacks and destroys its own bile ducts in the liver and gallbladder) and after lots of testing and a failed corrective surgery, she is now in need of a liver transplant within the next six months. Anyway, sorry for the downer and the long note. I hope this chapter makes up for it! Enjoy!**

It had been an average case; an eight on the scale and complicated at first glance. A string of seemingly unrelated murders and odd occurrences all traced back to the same man. Someone with extensive medical knowledge and access to chemicals was testing something, apparently without much success. Middle aged homeless men disappeared off the streets only to reappear dead and often disfigured, traces of obscure chemicals left on their skin and clothes. Nothing conclusive showed up in the tox screens.

Sherlock had finally gotten an address and a name. _Liam_. He and John had hidden outside of the not-quite-abandoned warehouse, waiting until they were certain it was the right one. Around midnight a man fitting the description of their "mad scientist" appeared, slipping quietly into the building. Unable to wait any longer, Sherlock led John to the building. Quietly, the entered through a rear window. John had his gun drawn, leading the way into the facility.

What appeared on the outside to be a plain, abandoned warehouse was so much more on the inside. It was a state of the art laboratory, but with minimal security. They were in a supply room. Sherlock read some of the labels, surprised when he didn't recognize all of the names. They didn't have time to waste, so, without further pause, they left the room and followed the sterile-looking hallway to a pair of heavy doors, a small porthole window in each.

One man, alone. Mid fifties, physically fit with close-cropped gray hair, wearing a stereotypical white lab coat. That was their mad scientist.

John led the charge, gun aimed at the man's chest as they entered the room. Sherlock ordered him to put his hands up, feeling smug. Things were all going according to plan, but then, Liam turned, an unsettling smile on his face. "I've been expecting you," was all he said, avoiding the trope of monologuing; something Sherlock normally would have appreciated. But not today. Now, the mad scientist was firing a small dart gun, hidden and built into his sleeve. The small dart hit John's thigh, dispensing its dose of _something_ quickly. John's eyes rolled back and he fell to the floor, gun clattering.

Stunned and distracted, Liam got a head start on his escape and Sherlock lost sight of him soon after exiting the building. Sherlock rushed back to the building, panicking. But John was gone. Not even a body. Sherlock could do nothing but stare at the pile of empty clothes belonging to his friend, brain refusing to function.

"Sherwock?" came a quiet, wavering voice from under one of the counters.

The tall consulting detective crouched, peering underneath. He was met with a small, blond boy with big blue eyes, wearing John's oatmeal-colored jumper. "John?"

Sherlock was suddenly jolted out of his memory. He had been reexamining the event, knowing he was missing something, something obvious. He sat up on the couch, wondering what had disturbed him. The last couple of weeks had been quiet; Sherlock and John rarely left the flat and only allowed select visitors. Miraculously, the detective had yet to grow truly bored. Toddler-aged John was nothing if not busy, entertaining, and fascinating. After his episode of being kidnapped, older John had disappeared again and hadn't reappeared, which was odd and somewhat troubling. But child John was happy and for that Sherlock was grateful.

Running a hand through his wild curls, Sherlock stood, still pondering his dream when he heard what roused him. A scream. Sherlock was halfway up the stairs before the realization fully dawned; John was screaming.


End file.
